beklemmt | (no subject)

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[From here.]

For all that J has always had to be the one to urge S to be pragmatic and serious, he's the one who's driven entirely by his feelings and desires, by a mind he knows is warped and wrong without knowing all of why or how. It's hard to want things so badly and not to be able to trust that, or to trust the wrong thing, the wrong need. Finding a middle ground feels all but impossible sometimes, and he ends up pulled back and forth by a constantly contorting sense of logic — ruled by reason without knowing if it's actually madness, ruled by his heart while ignoring the things he loves.

Right now, in this moment, he feels sure of what he wants. There are doubts, there are fears, there's always a shadow cast over every damn thing he does, but he's sure of this much, at least. If he can't be steady, if he can't be fully certain of his own self, he can be sure of S. While that scares him a little, feeling himself trying to lean for support on the same person he tried to push away, the same person he tried to kill, it also feels like one of the more sensible things he's done in a long time. Judging by his willingness to take J back, S isn't all that much saner than he is, but he's a hell of a lot more trustworthy.

And he's sweet, and he's loving, and every brush of his lips, every place his body presses into J's, rings out with that. And maybe J isn't ready for this, because he's been through a lot today and he's worn out and emotional, and just being kissed like he's the most precious person ever to exist almost makes him feel like he might cry again. He knows he doesn't deserve this. It isn't the first time he's rushed blindly, though, into things he knows he shouldn't do or have.

"We," he breathes out, "we should —" He doesn't know. He isn't sure. He means to stop kissing S for a moment, but ends up kissing him elsewhere instead, lips trailing along his jaw, his cheek. "I don't know." Stop, his brain supplies, and slow down. Be careful. Instead he lifts his head again for another kiss.

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Not for the first time today, it strikes J just how much tenderness there is in the way S kisses him, in the softness of his touch. It could make him miserable if he let it, knowing he was enough of a fool to give this away, monster enough to try to snuff it out entirely. Right now, he just wants to hold onto it with all the strength he can muster.

He's gentle now, kissing S sweet and slow, savoring the peace of the moment. His skin still feels electric; it's fading now to something quieter, but it's still there, his heart racing, just enough to make him viscerally aware how alive he is. Had S not been here when he arrived, he suspects he would have tried to make it a day at least, that it was seeing what he did that sent him into such a tailspin. He's more certain that it wouldn't have worked. If anything is worth staying alive for, wrestling with all that guilt for, it has to be this. S deserves his effort, at least. S makes him want to try.

When he draws back, that's slow, too, reluctant to stop though he knows they should. "Come on," he murmurs. "Think you're okay to stand?" Once they finish getting cleaned off, they can get out of here and into bed. He's not sure what S will do, if he'll join him or not, but J knows he doesn't have long before he's too tired to do anything at all. Relaxed and contented, it's already difficult to fight off the way his eyes threaten to close and stay closed. That's a relief, too. As hard as it is to push through the fatigue, it feels good to think he might actually be able to sleep.

Even knowing they should stop, even, admittedly, starting to look forward to getting out of this soaked shirt, S is reluctant to pull away, nodding but leaning in again, kissing J's forehead, temple, cheek. It's hard to be anything but stupidly affectionate right now, still struck by how stunning J is, how S thought he would never get to do this again. Although he's not as afraid as he was earlier, J no longer seeming in quite so imminent danger of ending his life again, it's still there in the back of his head, that he can't guarantee this will last. Right now, it makes S want all the more to make this most of this while he can, memorizing and cherishing everything, though memory could never do this feeling justice.

They really can't just keep sitting here, though, so finally, biting back a sigh, he nods again. "I should be," he says. Sore as he is, he should still be alright on his feet, and the sooner they finish washing up, the sooner he can get changed and off his feet again. J has already said he'll stay, at least for tonight. S hopes he'll stay longer than that, but it isn't as if, once they're finished in here, he'll be on his own again. They'll still have this, a fact that still makes his head spin.

Making himself sit back further, S starts to shift so he can pull himself to his feet, a hand against the wall again to steady himself. He looks over at J, though, as he does, still more fond than anything else, the slightest bit teasing. "Are you?"

J smiles, brow arching, and shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, mostly joking. He hadn't thought about it actually, just figured they needed to get up and finish in here, but now that S mentions it, it's a question worth asking. He's exhausted, albeit pleasantly so, hips and jaw sore. At least sitting for a little while means he's pretty sure he's not so weak in the knees as he was a couple minutes ago. "I guess we'll see."

He gets to his feet carefully, a touch wobblier than he anticipated, but fine all the same, intent on returning to helping S clean up — in earnest, this time. Instead he steps closer to kiss S again. "See, I'm fine," he says when he pulls back. "But you might be stuck with me tomorrow. I don't think either of us are going to be walking much." He might be okay now, but they're both going to be feeling this still tomorrow. Worth it, though, he figures. Besides, they have a lot of lost time to make up for.

It's tempting to tease S, to say he might end up having to move in if they keep this up, but he bites it back. It's hard not to get caught up in the heady whirlwind of being back together, easy to be afraid of what happens when he's left alone, but he has to be sure. He doesn't want to move too fast and damage what they still have; he doesn't want to tip back over into madness and risk hurting S. It's a sobering thought to have now, one he masks by ducking around S to find the shampoo, one he pushes aside into the back of his mind, marked as something to dwell on later, probably more than he should. Until he's more certain he's safe for S to be around, he has to be careful.

Today, though, he thinks he'll be okay. Volatile though his emotions have been, he's too wrung out from everything this day has been to be any threat, he thinks, either to S or himself. "Come here," he says, squeezing shampoo into his palm. "Let me wash your hair." He knows S is perfectly capable of doing this on his own, but since he's here, he wants to do it, a gesture of affection that won't — probably — end in their having sex again.

S can only smile, soft and a little self-conscious, gaze cast slightly down, at the assertion that he might be stuck with J tomorrow. "I was hoping I would be," he admits, his voice half-teasing but the words themselves entirely serious. What he wants, really, is for J just to stay here, but he knows he can't push for that. Already he's told J that he'll always be welcome here, and he can't do anything more than that, fears that trying to insist J stay longer would just send him in the wrong direction. It will be better, probably, to take it slow, try to turn one day into two, then two into three, at least until J has had long enough to settle that S won't have to worry that he'll leave and decide to kill himself again after all. They can't spend the rest of their lives like this, he knows; he can't always be afraid of what might happen if they're apart. For now, though, just for a little while, he wants that reassurance that J is safe. No matter how much has changed since they were out on the couch earlier and how good he feels now, he hasn't forgotten how or why he broke down.

And, if he's honest, he would probably want J here anyway, despite the multitude of reasons it isn't exactly a sound idea, between the way things fell apart when they lived together before and the fact that the last time they saw each other before today, J tried to kill him. S isn't as worried about that as reason dictates he probably should be, though. He's seen how guilt-ridden J is over the things he's done, watched him cry over the sight of the scars he left on S's chest. In the time they've been together today, S hasn't once felt unsafe. Maybe it's unwise to trust that, trust J, as fervently as he does, and it isn't as if he won't be wary, but he doesn't think he has anything to fear here.

Somehow, it feels a little like proof of that when he tips his head back under the spray of the shower for a moment, then turns around so his back is to J. It sounds nice, really, having J wash his hair, easy as it would be to do himself, though he isn't sure why he's so surprised that they keep having the same thoughts; he wanted to do this for J when he was sitting beside the tub while J took a bath earlier but wasn't sure if it would have made things better or worse. This, though, this is good. "Here."

Even his heart aches. It's not a bad ache, really. There's something about being so wanted, so loved, that has a profound impact on J, hard to explain or even understand for himself. It's an overwhelming goodness, and something bittersweet, too. Even with shampoo in his hand, he takes a moment before he starts, stepping closer to press a kiss to the nape of S's neck. He knows, he wants to say. He knows S wants him to stay. He wants to be able to.

He knows, too, that love alone wasn't enough to stop him earlier — that love, in some way, was what undid him, what prompted him to attack when he was nearly about to let S leave unharmed. He can't risk it. He can't say so either, not wanting to upset the balance they have here, the loving calm. If he admits what he's worried about, they'll both be hurt by it, even if he wonders if S already knows.

So he brushes another kiss against S's neck before standing upright to wash his hair, gently massaging the shampoo through his hair, breathing in steam to help put himself back at ease. This, too, is soothing, pleasantly domestic. He missed this kind of thing more than he thought, he realizes now. It's enough to make him wonder absently if he can manage to stay awake longer after all. S mentioned food. He's less interested in the prospect of eating yet than he is in just being in the kitchen together, but he probably needs it regardless. It used to be so easy, the daily dance of living together. He misses the comfortable simplicity of it, the small happinesses they found just in doing little things together. He misses the person he was, someone who could enjoy such things without having to overthink it or worry, without blood on his hands.

They're clean now, at least literally, lather spilling over his fingers as he works them through S's hair. It's reassuring to be able to do something like this, to find calm in something small. "You're stuck with me either way," he says, soft, smiling just a little, though he knows S can't see him now. "Whether I live here or not." He wants to say he's not going anywhere. He wants to say as long as I live. He doesn't want them to have to think about how long that might be, how true it might be. "I'm yours."

That, at least, he knows with absolute certainty is true.

It feels good, J's mouth soft against his neck, his hands gentle in his hair. S breathes deeply, distracted for the moment from his thoughts, his head falling back a little again to give J more room. However easy it is, something he's done for himself countless times in J's absence, it's different like this, intimate rather than perfunctory, soothing, really, despite the simplicity of it. J's words are, too, calming even as they send a faint, pleasant shudder rolling down S's spine. Even as much as he wants J just to stay here, convinced that it's the sensible choice even as he knows, too, that there are reasons why they should ease back into things rather than diving in where they left off, he believes that much to be true. J says it, and S knows he wouldn't if he didn't mean it.

Of course, he also knows how quickly J's moods and opinions can change, how the things he loves one day, he might hate the next. S is still a little fearful of that now, though not for any reasons involving his own safety. Idly, he hopes J understands that — that for S to be here now, his eyes shut and back turned, throat bared, wouldn't be possible if not for how much he still trusts J — but it doesn't seem worth saying so or drawing attention to it, in case it brings up any of the reasons why that probably shouldn't be the case. What he's scared of instead is that J might decide not to try to stay after all, that he might swing back in the direction from earlier, or that J might come to resent him again like he did at the end, leading up to when he left. Everything still feels so fucking fragile, and it's worth it, unquestionably so, but that doesn't make the delicacy any less unnerving.

He doesn't want to say that, either, instead letting J's words echo in his head like a heartbeat. "Me too," he murmurs, just loud enough to be audible over the shower. "Yours." Not for the first time today, almost certainly not for the last, he thinks that's always been the case, that he's always belonged to J in some way, even before he was aware of it. In a way, it makes sense that the same is true in turn, but after everything, it's staggering, too, enough to knock the breath from him. Humming thoughtfully, he weighs his words for a moment. "And... like I said before. You'll always be welcome here."

There's soap in his hair and he's half-dressed and entirely drenched. He should — and does — look ridiculous. He's also, as far as J is concerned, the most beautiful person who's ever lived. There's so much grace and life in every line and curve of his profile, down his throat. And though, it occurs to him briefly, he thinks he did well when he wrote the movement for S, he's not sure anything could ever really do justice to this. The incandescent vitality of his being, even in repose, is something J knows he can never convey, and he'd be a fool to try ever again to write anything that tries to capture how it feels to be so in love with S and so utterly loved in return.

He wishes he could. He wishes desperately he had a piano and some time, a space in which to try and write something that comes even halfway to evoking this feeling. As fervently as he loves, as passionate as he is, it's still hard to find ways to express that at times. He trusts music when he doesn't trust his own voice. But he can't. Maybe never again.

But he's here. He's alive, somehow, and S is so lovely, so sweet, so trusting, leaning back with absolute faith. He says yours and that's enough, J thinks. It has to be and it is. Even when he knows now, again, with a certainty he lost that S means that entirely, J hasn't yet lost the sense of wonder that comes with hearing it. Carefully rinsing the shampoo out of S's hair, he shakes his head. "I know," he says. It's still nice to have reaffirmed. Months of voice messages he couldn't bear to erase until he had to told J as much before now. After today, though, it's not something he can take for granted. Even hearing it now, he knows he'll always need to ask, to be sure. He couldn't fault S for changing his mind about feeling safe living with someone who tried to kill him.

Hand sweeping over hand, rinsing the soap away, he focuses on the sensation of it, S's hair soft under his hands. "I want that," he admits. "I meant it earlier. You're my home." He slips his arms around S's waist when he finishes, pressing a kiss to his cheek now. "We'll see." It's hard to deny S anything right now, but he just can't commit to this, not until he's sure. It isn't worth putting S in danger.

For just a moment, S feels the faintest burst of what he realizes after a moment is guilt, or something like it, though there's no reason for that. They aren't even doing anything particularly complicated, nothing they haven't done dozens of times, probably countless times, before. Just as when he was crying on the couch earlier, though, he realizes that it's been a long time since he had anyone to take care of him. J did, for a time, and S has never forgotten or stopped being grateful for that, but somewhere down the line, things changed, and he still doesn't entirely understand it. He never minded, either, being the one doing the caretaking — enjoyed it, really, or as much as he could when he would so often be so worried about J, wanting to be able to make some difference for him. Once he was on his own, it isn't as if S had anyone else to step in. Even recovering from his wounds, he had to weather by himself. But J is so gentle with him, and maybe it's the fact that this is so insignificant, so unnecessary, that makes it mean that much more, makes it hard to ignore the voice from before that says he shouldn't need this, shouldn't savor it so much.

Maybe neither of them is very good at being taken care of, at least not anymore.

It's a fleeting thought, one he pushes away in favor of focusing on J's hands and how good they feel rinsing the shampoo from his head, on what J says as he finishes. S draws in a slow, deliberate breath, then nods, straightening a little, so he can better lean into J's touch. This, too, hurts a little to hear when he was there all along, wanting J to come home, but he can at least try to tell himself that maybe it's better this way, that J got here, not necessarily on his own terms, but is saying this now of his own accord. Despite what it took, they're both home now.

"And you're mine," he says softly, not wanting to get more into it than that, to have to acknowledge how long he's gone without having one, how he knows he never would have had one again. He doesn't want to push, either, and run the risk of it sending J in the opposite direction, though at least for the moment, that doesn't seem very likely. "Whether you stay here or not, that won't change."

It's for the best, J wants to say. He's fucked up so many times in so many ways, done such unforgivable things. He doesn't want to say no to anything S wants right now. Even we'll see feels cruelly distant when they both want this so badly. But he knows with absolute certainty that, if he were to misjudge his own sanity, if he were ever to hurt S again, he wouldn't be able to live with it. He can't risk harming S physically, and he can't risk the pain it would cause if S had to endure losing him again. Even now, still feeling mostly peaceful, he's aware that's going to be enough of a struggle as it is. S has helped so much to keep the ghosts and demons at bay for the last while, but that can't always be the case. There will be times when S has to leave him alone, and J can't ask him to carry all his burdens anyway. It won't always work. It didn't before, and he knows he's only gotten worse, much more than he ever imagined possible. Being around S helps right now, but even the tiniest risk he might hurt him is too much of one to take.

It's comforting, at least, to hear S say that where he lives won't change things. If the last day hasn't, nothing could, but all the same, it's reassuring. Even if they can't or won't discuss it yet, at least he knows S understands.

Leaning his head against S's, he gives a soft hum of agreement. "Always," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the corner of S's mouth. "Always, always." If all he's done to others and to S and to himself hasn't changed their bond for the worse, nothing could. "Mm, okay, what next? Conditioner? Soap?" He wants to get S out of here fast. The shirt has to be increasingly uncomfortable, and he doesn't know if the hot water will give out suddenly.

That one word, always, sounds so much better than it has any right to. S's eyes close again for a moment as he nods, taking that in, trying to commit the weight of it to memory. As delicate as this still is, he thinks that it probably shouldn't mean as much as it does — except that whatever else happens, he knows it will still be true regardless. If J kills himself again, if J hurts him, if any act of fate tears them apart or any other person does, J will still be his home, the only one he's had in a long time, and he'll want to continue being J's. Nothing else has to matter yet. Now isn't even the time to get into the reasons why he thinks it would be more practical for J to stay here, though they're all true; really, it just seems like a waste for them to be paying for two separate apartments when they want to be together. It can wait. He doesn't, he reminds himself again, want to push for too much and risk disrupting the peace they've found here with each other.

A tacit sort of agreement, confirmation that the same is true for him, too, S leans in for one more soft kiss, lingering a moment, not wanting to move on too quickly. "Conditioner," he says when he does, perhaps a little selfishly wanting to let J finish washing his hair. Glad as he'll be to get out of the shower and this wet shirt, he likes this enough not to want to rush it, even if there's no reason they couldn't stay close once they get out of the tub. "Please."

Looking at J, he almost forgets for a moment what he wanted to say, though at least it comes back to him before he can make himself look even more ridiculous than he probably already does. "Do you want to wash your hair again after?" he asks. "Or not yet?" It feels like forever ago that J was sitting here, S fully clothed beside the tub, but it wasn't really very long at all. Nothing about today makes any kind of sense, really, except that they're here now, back with each other where they belong, home in any world or city or apartment or time.

There's a little flicker of relief and pleasure at S's response. Conditioner means a little longer here. As much as J would like to sleep, he's not entirely convinced he'll be able to even now. It seems much more possible than it has in a long time, and he knows that, if S gets into bed with him, it'll be that much easier. He's missed falling asleep curled together like that. That doesn't mean it will work, though, when sleep has eluded him for so long. Weeks, at least. Months more likely, though it's hard to keep track of time when everything bleeds together like this. Waiting a little longer to see if that's changed is a small price for getting to linger with S.

He's tempted, too, to say that he always wants to wash his hair — or, more accurately, that he would like S to do it for him, because he sees right through him, and he knows what that question really means. It would be so nice, he thinks, to say yes, to relax and let S work his fingers through his hair. But he's already washed his hair once today, and it seems like a waste of time to do so again when they could just get in bed and cuddle instead.

Reluctant though he is to pull away, he does so, reaching for the conditioner. "Not yet," he says. "Next time. Right now, I just want to get dry and in bed." With a dollop in hand, he sets the bottle down and starts working the conditioner into S's hair. For a moment, he thinks maybe he's overstepped, but he realizes abruptly in the next instant that that's ridiculous. S wants him to stay the night — to stay much longer, really — and they've already had sex today. That bed is partially his now.

For all that he wouldn't mind staying here even longer, and likes the idea of being able to wash J's hair like he wanted to earlier, S thinks that, getting dry and in bed, sounds nice, too. He has no intention of sleeping, but just to have J curled up beside him again, like the way they used to sleep, will be more than appealing all on its own. Like so much else, he hasn't shared a bed with anyone since he shared one with J, and he's missed that closeness, too. He's not in any hurry to end this, though, humming contentedly as J's hands work into his hair again, eyes staying half-shut. In a different way than earlier, this still seems like the best he's felt in a long time, even with everything still hanging overhead, even with as exhausted and achy as his body is.

By tomorrow, he knows, he's probably going to be covered in bruises, his waist and hips and thighs marked by J's hands, his neck by J's mouth. S hopes, in a distant sort of way, that J won't be bothered by that, will know he wanted it, relishes it, really, having physical proof of what's happened here and how wanted he's been. It's been a long time since he could say that was the case. Now it feels better even than he remembered for how much time has passed.

"Next time," he echoes with a slight nod, then after a moment, groans in faint, amused frustration as he considers the rest of what J has said. "We still need to remake the bed." There are other things they should probably do, too. He still isn't sure when J last ate, and though it's hard to think of anything offhand, S knows there are further explanations about this place he'll have to give, preferably before they go anywhere else. Getting in bed might just win, though.

Even as J makes an annoyed sound at being reminded they still have a chore to do, he doesn't really mind. It feels good, everything about this such a relief right now that it's a wonder he hasn't yet drifted off from finally relaxing or burst into tears again. Though all of this is new in the sense that he hasn't had it in a long time, it's also familiar, and the simple order of things helps so much more than he would have thought it would. Tired as he is, time still doesn't make sense, exactly, but he can see days ahead of them where it does, where they have things to do, little domestic chores and activities, that divide the time, rather than spending his days in a kind of fugue state where all he's entirely sure of is whether it's day or night. He can imagine — distant and vague, just an outline — a small life for them, quiet and simple. Not neat, exactly — he's never been all that good at being orderly, tidy — but theirs, contained, a little world that makes sense. With soap on his hands and S looking, sounding, quietly content, he can almost see nights of safety and actual rest, days of being loved, waking up in each other's arms.

He stopped being able to see that. Back in the last months they were together, he couldn't imagine peace between them — not like that, not lasting, just isolated moments in the center of the storm he brings with him wherever he goes. And even standing here, grumbling quietly about a chore but still softly satisfied, he knows it isn't that easy. The trouble with him hasn't gotten any better. If anything, he's much, much worse than when he left S. He's not sure he's capable of giving that kind of peace to S, giving him any kind of a settled life, the way he wants to.

But he wants to. That has to mean something, he knows it. For once, that seems like it might be, if not enough, at least a start. He kept putting his art before everything — even S, even himself — and the future shifted, everything he wanted fading into something different, clouded over by doubts and fears. After today, though, no matter how upsetting it is every time he thinks for even an instant that music is something he'll have to put aside — for a long time, if not forever — he also knows that his needs have shifted again. He hurt S, almost killed him. And while he hates that that's what it took to make him realize what matters most, at least he's realized it. At least he is, somehow, miraculously, alive to try and do something about it. At least, right now, in this tiny calm, it feels possible.

"I guess," he sighs, playing at sounding put upon at the idea of making a bed. It's hard to sound too annoyed, though, even in jest, when the world feels like it's starting to slowly unfurl in front of him, spring returning after a long winter. "All the more reason to finish soon." Even so, he takes his time rinsing the conditioner from S's hair, getting every last bit out before slipping his arms around his waist once more. "There we go."

It's been so long that S can't quite manage to bite back a smile at the attempted annoyance in J's voice, all the more so for how unconvincing it is. Under the circumstances, he would probably find just about anything endearing, but he still thinks it's cute. Really, he can't mind it as much as he otherwise might have, too, given the reason why they have to remake the bed in the first place. That, and sore as he might be, he doubts he's as tired as J is, remembering how J said something earlier about how he hasn't been sleeping. It's been an exhausting day anyway, in some ways very pleasantly so, in others very much not. With everything J has been through on top of that — S does not look at his scarred arm, not sure he could stomach it right now and not wanting to ruin this moment — it must be even more of one.

J needs the sleep; S needs to stay awake to keep an eye on him, idly wondering if he can manage to put coffee on before they lie down without drawing any attention to his doing so or why. It's a concern he files away for later, ducking his head to kiss J instead as J's arms settle around his waist again. They shouldn't linger — should try to finish soon, like J said, not least because wearing a wet shirt is starting to get a little bit annoying — but still he feels too good to pull away, his own hands between them, resting lightly over J's chest, touching him just for the sake of it. He missed this, all of it, the sex and the kissing and just the companionship, the warmth of J's body, his beautiful, delicate hands. S knows that if he keeps saying it, he's only going to draw attention to the reasons why he's had to miss it in the first place, but it's still true all the same, something he doubts he could lose sight of if he tried.

"You guess?" he asks, teasing, encouraging, his smile growing a little wider. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to sleep in the bed the way we left it." It was worth it, though, and then some. Even aching from the sex they had, even knowing he'll still probably be feeling it tomorrow and not really looking forward to having to make the bed up again now, he can't imagine any better reason to be this worn out.

He should move, probably, get the soap and finish washing up so they can get out of the shower. He lingers anyway, trying to memorize the way J looks right now. "That felt nice."

They've exchanged plenty of smiles now — more, to be honest, than J thought he had in himself — but it's so nice to see S looking happy. There's so much rolled up into expression, and J loves all of it — the playfulness, the contentment, the love. It's hard to believe he caused that, hard to wrap his mind around getting something right.

"I missed this," he says, soft, lifting a hand to rest at S's cheek. "Making you smile." He thought he'd forgotten how or somehow unlearned it. He knows he was more often the cause of pain, of tears, and that none of that could have stopped in his absence. It might have lessened, but he left S missing him and then grieving him. That he could bring him any kind of happiness is awe-inspiring. For a time, he thought his leaving was best for both of them. He can't pretend it was selfless, that he didn't put his own needs first when he went, but he was so sure it was right, that he hurt S too much to be any good for him. He can't undo the choices he made, and he's still not entirely sure that he was wrong about that one — he wasn't doing either of them any favors in staying — but he can choose better now. He hopes he can. He means to try.

Lifting his head just slightly, he draws S gently closer for another kiss. As much as he'd like to linger, he knows he shouldn't, drawing back much sooner than he'd like. "And, no," he adds, wry, but still so affectionate, "I do not want to sleep in that bed as it is. I hope you bought a lot of sheets."

The comment startles a laugh out of S, his head dropping briefly to J's shoulder, lips pressing against bare skin there just because. "I bought two sets of sheets," he says as he looks up again. "I'll do laundry tomorrow." He thought he would be alone here, after all, had no possible reason to expect otherwise, and the money that was waiting for him when he arrived could and will only go so far. Clothes, food, bedding, towels, toiletries — he's had to be careful and frugal with all of them, partly out of habit, partly because he doesn't want to risk that small reserve dwindling to nothing. Apparently there will be more where that came from next month, and by then, maybe he won't have to be quite so cautious, many of the essentials already purchased, but it's hard to trust a stipend just provided to him, too.

Already he's considered that he's going to have to find work of some kind, probably sooner rather than later. J's being here now makes that feel both more important — he can't help the part of him that hopes J will just move in, in which case S assumes he'd be supporting the both of them, at least for a while — and less so, with as unwilling as he is to leave J's side, still wanting to make sure J is steady before leaving him on his own for hours at a time every day. Eventually, they'll get there. S hopes they'll have a chance for that, anyway. Right now, though, everything is still too fresh and he's too fearful, a faint but steady pulse under the nearly overwhelming happiness he feels, the joy and relief at having J in his arms again.

Still smiling, still fond, he nods a little in belated agreement, leaning into the warmth of J's hand on his cheek. "I missed it, too," he says. Fewer and further between as they may have been near the end, and never mind since then, no one has ever been able to make him smile like J has. He's missed being able to do the same in turn, too, often as he might have failed at doing so, his attempts frequently backfiring. Since J has said so, though, he thinks it might be okay, might be safe, to do so, too. "I missed... all of this. I missed you."

It's something J still doesn't entirely understand. With how he behaved before he moved out, some part of him, he supposes, thought S might even be relieved to get rid of him, no matter how much S said otherwise. With everything he did after, S should have called the police the moment he saw him today. There's no point on the timeline where J would have expected S to miss him this much. After he died, yes, he would have expected some grief had he thought that far ahead into a future he never expected to see. But he would have thought S would be done with him. How S could love him through those months apart, how he could love J even now, J doesn't understand.

But it's true. He sees it in the way S looks at him, the way he holds him, the soft kiss on his shoulder, the tenderness in his voice. He sees it and he believes it, more now than he has in a long time. If S can still look at him, knowing all he's done, still love him so fiercely, then it's real. It has to be, more than he once let himself believe. Even when he wanted to believe it, part of him rejected that. This, though, is impossible to refute. It's everything and it's utterly surreal, looking at the person who matters more to him than anyone, seeing him look at J like he's the only person who exists.

He has to stop himself from apologizing again. Sorry as he is for all he's done and all he didn't do, he's said it enough times for now. He can pick up again later, after they've both had some rest. There will be plenty to talk about then. For now, he just swallows hard, trying not to get too emotional, overwhelmed by so many strange, swirling feelings — gratitude and melancholy, an endless affection, something bittersweet, relief. "I'm here," he says instead, hushed, guiding S closer for another kiss, soft but lingering longer now. "Don't wanna be anywhere else." He presses soft kisses to S's other cheek, to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "Maybe we'll get it right this time?" It comes out smaller than he'd like — a touch sad, maybe, but with more hope than he thought he could still muster.

Just what it is, S isn't sure — how emotional today has been already, how exhausted he is, months of loneliness and grief, that quiet fear that this won't last, or maybe some or all of them. Whatever the cause, though, he feels his chest constrict at what J says and the way J kisses him, the soft question, and he has to take a few deep breaths to fight off a sudden surge of feelings that would almost certainly ruin the mood. He almost thinks that he shouldn't have said anything after all, but then he quickly decides that that can't be right. Careful as he is and intends to continue being, he can't hold everything back, not if he does intend for this to work. Right now, there's too much else he needs to keep at bay. Add much more to that, and it wouldn't be fair, wouldn't be right. He can protect J without being dishonest. This is good, probably, actually. S just has to keep telling himself that.

"I want to," he says, soft, equally bittersweet and hopeful in turn, tipping his head into J's hand just enough to press a kiss to his palm. "After everything... I think we can. I hope we can." This, all that's happened today, seems to him like a good start, at least. It isn't perfect, but it never could have been, and that they've made it here anyway, all bound up in each other and all this affection, wanting to get it right, has to be promising. He doesn't care that he probably shouldn't; there's nothing he wants more than this. That, and whether this works out or not, to keep J here and safe and alive, regardless of what they are to each other.

Perhaps selfishly, he just hopes they can be this, what they once were and yet not, closer somehow, he thinks, inexplicably, for the mess that everything became and even just for the last few hours.

As much as he wants just to wrap J up in his arms and hold him for a little while, S thinks it's better saved for when they're out of the shower and dried off, when he won't have the thought in the back of his head that they should finish up before too long. He doesn't know how much longer the hot water will hold, and he suspects again that his water bill is going to be absurd, though he doesn't care about that as much as he should, and they'll be more comfortable that way anyway. With that in mind, he doesn't pull J closer, but he doesn't pull away yet either, lifting his chin to kiss J's forehead this time, lingering for a moment, breathing him in. "I love you."

He probably shouldn't have said that, J thinks distantly, or not like that, but he's not sure he cares either. If anything, he's glad he did. It might dampen the mood a little, to be honest about this, but he'd rather they be cautiously optimistic than blindly so. That S meets him on that point is promising. He knows there was a time when S would have reassured him that they'd make it work, so certain that whatever was wrong could be fixed, that their love would be enough, when J couldn't even be certain that their love was wholly real. Now he knows it is, the way he once did, and to see S approach this realistically helps, a reminder that they both know better now. S knows what J's done and who he is. J knows how badly he fucked up, the hundred ways he misjudged S and their relationship and what he himself needs. They can hope fervently to make this work, but neither of them can guarantee it. Being aware of that, he thinks, makes it all the more possible that they can figure this out.

Besides, he feels so much better now than he did when he got here. With S brushing a kiss against his forehead, being so sweet, he feels calm again. "I love you," he echoes, quiet but passionate. Whatever happens, he needs S to know that. Whether they work out or not, whether he lives or dies, it won't having anything to do with whether or not they love each other. He leans his head back to catch S's eyes again. "Come on. You can't be comfortable in this shirt still. Clean, get clean."

It isn't the time for him to say all the things he wants to say. It wouldn't be right to tell S again how he'll try, how he wants to be better. They have a tiny piece of happiness here. He knows he hasn't always been very good at holding onto these little moments of peace, that he's always been more inclined to shatter them. If they're going to work, though, and if he's going to try, he starts now. He refuses to drag this down by saying painful things they both already know. Their problems will still be here in an hour or six hours or twelve. As much as he wants them to be realistic about this, they can, he thinks, manage that without dwelling on apologies. Just for a little while, at least. He owes S that much. He can do that for S.

So he makes himself step back, too, reaching for the soap to hand off to S. "You're gonna come to bed, too, right?" he asks as it occurs to him again. It's not very late, or he doesn't think it is, though admittedly his grasp on time has grown increasingly skewed over the last several months. He might have worn S out, but he doesn't know if S is actually sleepy the way he is. "At least until I fall asleep?"

He can't say that he needs it, that even now he's scared that being exhausted won't be enough. He's not even sure he wants S to understand that right now. It's been too long, though, anyway, and he just wants to fall asleep with S holding him again.

He really isn't comfortable in his shirt, but even with J having done so first, S doesn't want to say so, thinks it's better not to draw any attention to the reason why he's wearing it. It isn't as if he minds, anyway. If he did, he wouldn't have suggested it, or would have kept this quick like they first said they would, or would have taken J up on his earlier offer to cut this short. He's just dimly but consistently aware of it. This solution won't be any kind of a permanent one. Really, S isn't sure he even has enough shirts to go through a clean one every time he and J shower together, and he doesn't think they should do so separately yet, remembering too well how J said before that he wasn't ready to be alone. Since then, he seems steadier, but S is certain that could change too easily, and that isn't a chance worth taking. For now, if this is what it takes, then it's worth it, the least of what he'd do to keep J safe.

So he's disappointed but he doesn't fight it when J steps back, resists the temptation to lean in and start kissing him again, to let his hands wander. S just takes the soap instead, looks around for a moment to figure out where the washcloth they left in here earlier is, and sets about finishing washing up, shooting a quick smile over at J as he does. A part of him thinks he should have just done this sooner. Mostly, though, despite his wet shirt, despite how exorbitant his water bill is likely to be, he thinks it's good that he didn't. As ridiculous as it might be to have had multiple serious conversations in the shower, mostly undressed, they seem like important ones to have had. He, at least, feels like they're on more solid ground with each other and what their relationship is, or can be, or will be, and prolonging their shower is more than worth it to have that.

Slightly distracted as he is, J's question comes as a surprise. S pauses, but only for a moment, his expression softening as he nods. It isn't as if it requires any thought. He was planning on staying with J anyway, just not actually sleeping; having him ask, though, makes something in S's chest twist a little, once again bittersweet, fond and a bit sad. "Of course," he says. He doesn't know what time it is, and really, he thinks they both should have something to eat first, but he doesn't want to make J stay awake if he's too tired. He'll just have to make them a good breakfast to make up for it tomorrow. "I'll stay with you." One corner of his mouth curls just a little higher again, a ghost of a smile. "I missed that, too."

J spends so much of his life tense in various degrees, he often doesn't notice it until it eases. He relaxes a little at S's reply, unsurprised yet relieved. It's hard to imagine a real reason why S wouldn't come to bed with him; even if it's early, they've both missed this too much for that. Even so, he wants it badly enough to need the reassurance. It was late into the night when he came here, or he's pretty sure it was, by the time it all ended. It wasn't half as late when he found himself in this city. Time doesn't mean much anymore.

"Good," he says with a little sigh of relief. He won't explain that he needs it, not just because he missed it, but because he's afraid he won't actually sleep if S isn't there to keep him steady while he tries. S can probably figure that out for himself anyway. "It's been too long." He pulls a face, stops just shy of apologizing again. "I know that's on me. But I missed it, too." It's been longer for S, too, than it has for him. With that in mind, they probably both need this. Even before the murders and the ghosts and the nightmares and the guilt, sleep rarely came easily for him. It was always better with S alongside him.

S doesn't say it, that J could have come home, that he wishes J had come home. Maybe if he had, things wouldn't have gotten so bad, but they might not have gotten this good, either. Regardless, it's in the past now, and they can't change it. Even as he's aware that he will probably have to keep reminding himself of it, S knows there's no real sense in entertaining any of those hypotheticals. Better to look ahead than behind them, to try to work with what they have than wish things were different and imagine how they might be so. They aren't. This is what they have, and as awful as everything has been for so long, where they've wound up seems pretty incredible, too. He meant it a moment ago, thinking that he feels like they're closer now for all they've had to deal with, that he understands J a little better. It would have been better if it hadn't happened — he can't say that he's grateful for the guilt J has to carry or the people who've died — but at least, if it had to, it brought them here, back to each other, where they belong.

Maybe even that is too optimistic, but S is trying hard not to be, knows that there are things here he can't just cast into a positive light. Really, he thinks it's just true. Nothing can be undone, but they can change how they go forward, and he would be crazy not to appreciate having this chance to get things right.

At what he suspects is an implicit apology, S pulls a face in turn, shaking his head. He can't pretend that isn't true either, when J is very much the one who left, but he doesn't want to harp on that any more than they have already. "We can make up for it now," he says, smile still slight, both bittersweet and reassuring. It's a little gratifying to know that while he was missing J, J was missing him, too, but S can't say he's glad for the fact of it, even if it would have been an easy thing to change. Ahead, not behind them. What they have, not any what ifs.

Having said that, he realizes it might sound like he's expecting J to stay here longer than has already been decided, but S swallows back the impulse to comment on it. If J doesn't move in, then S suspects they'll still spend a lot of nights together anyway, so it's likely still true enough. Instead, finishing with the soap, he considers it and the washcloth for a moment, offering both to J. "Do you need these?"

There's still a part of J that wants to argue that, even as he nods and takes what S offers, starting to wash up. They can do better going forward; they can make new memories, try to fix what went wrong before. But he's not sure they can make up for any of it, exactly. They get more chances now, hopefully, but none of it will undo all they missed and all the terrible things he did.

But they can try, he tells himself. At least, they can make an effort to make up for all the time they missed with each other. His crimes are his own. But this is theirs. It's not easy to bite his tongue, or even to admit to himself that he needs to. Where S is persistently hopeful, he's long had a tendency to refuse to be. He knows he wasn't always like that — stubborn, but not quite as much of a pessimist — and maybe that's what makes it hard to stay aware of it, that it doesn't align with how he once saw himself. If S can be more practical, though, he can at least try not to make things more difficult than they already are. He can't undo the fact that he was an incredibly terrible boyfriend for far too long there, but he can try to be a good one now. He knows he used to be. He can try to figure out how to be again.

So he measures out his response, taking time to get clean. "We are making up for it now," he says at last. He's painfully aware that this is going to be an uphill battle. As happy as S has made him this last while, he still knows he's had to push back against his own brain a lot to stay there, and it won't always be so manageable. As tired and overwhelmed as he is, he could easily have gone the other way or stayed in that miserable place. Right now, he can honestly say he's doing well, but he knows that isn't enough. It doesn't guarantee anything, not even tomorrow. But they're still trying. That's worth something.

He shakes his head, glancing back over at S. He wants to say it plainly, to tell him that, in less than half a day, S has been his reason for dying and his reason for living both. As dramatic as he knows it would sound, it's true. Still, it's not worth focusing on the first part just now. "I'm happy," he says instead, sounding a little confused by it himself. "Happier than I've been in a long time. You make me happy. It's a pretty good start."

Immediately, S hates that it hurts to hear, that he doesn't quite believe it. J means it, he has no doubt of that much. He just isn't sure how true it can be that he makes J happy when he hasn't seemed to do that in a long time. More often, his presence has seemed to make J all the more miserable and anxious and insecure. Even now, with J so sweet, and his happiness something that S is so fucking grateful for, especially after earlier, he has to push back against a flicker of doubt, a worry that he might not be good for J. That can't be true. They're here now, in spite of all possible odds and reasons they shouldn't be; everything he's been thinking the past few minutes still stands. He still believes that they're better off together than apart, too, and recent history seems to back that idea up. Right now, it is a good start. Still, he knows it won't be easy, knows how much they'll have to overcome, and just to consider that he might make things worse again just by being with J cuts deep, maybe all the more so for how at odds it seems with this past while.

He tries, but he can't quite hide that bit of sadness in his expression. S briefly steps closer to steal another quick kiss instead, hoping that might help mask it, or at least make sure it doesn't get misinterpreted. "I missed making you happy, too," he says by way of explanation, as close as he can get to that particular truth, at least for the moment. "I wasn't sure I still could." At least it feels more important than ever right now to be able to help in some way. He doesn't want to think about what might have happened if J had shown up here alone, or even if someone else had found him first, someone who might not have been able to try to coax him back to a place of relative calm. This, everything that's happened since, is just a magnificent bonus, something he wouldn't have let himself expect even if he imagined J arriving here at all but for which he's overwhelmingly appreciative. They'll get it right this time, he tells himself. They can try, at least, and he thinks they stand a better chance of it now, everything stripped away and leaving just the two of them, knowing each other even better than they could have before after all they've been through.

"I'm glad you are," he adds, not wanting to leave that unaddressed, though he suspects it's probably apparent what an understatement that is, despite how bittersweet he still sounds. There are, after all, plenty of reasons for J not to be happy. "And it is. A good start."

Though that sends a flicker of guilt through J, at least it's a small one, one he can handle. It isn't like it's new, and feeling bad for not being someone who can simply cheer up or get over things isn't as difficult to bear as all the other reasons he has to feel guilt and shame now. In relation to everything else, this is manageable, even a relief in that respect.

He pulls away just long enough to set the washcloth down again, deciding that he's done enough for now. Better to pull S close for another kiss. In a moment, they'll need to get out, and he's looking forward to that. Right now, though, he feels the need to be close. He doesn't know where to begin, how to tell S what he really thinks and feels. He's too tired to sort it out adequately himself, never mind find the words to express it. Still, he has to try. "It wasn't your fault," he says softly. "And it won't be. I'm the one who's..." He sighs and shrugs. There aren't really any words for what he is, and certainly none he wants to use now, when things are so peaceful, in spite of the soft melancholy arising between them. "It's something wrong with me. You... no one has ever made me as happy as you do."

It's hard to say and still meet S's eyes. He forces himself to do so, wants S to know he means it. There's something horribly wrong with him. Even now, when he feels better than he has since well before he left, he knows that to be true. Maybe some of the things S said and did didn't help, but he didn't turn J into whatever this is. All that time he wasted, all the reasons he gave S to doubt them, those are on him. He can't let S fault himself for it in the least, not without saying something.